


A Mouth Full of Belonging

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)



Series: A.K.A. Baby Steps [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But he's working on that, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jessica asks for help for once, Matt is good at getting in his own way, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou
Summary: For once, Matt Murdock has the chance to be happy. The city has been saved and things are going well with Jessica. But Matt has never been any good at being happy, and he's really good at getting in his own way. He can talk himself out of good things with the same ease he can beat down criminals, but he's starting to understand that if he doesn't stop soon, he might lose the chance to be happy with someone who understands him. Someone he loves and really doesn't want to lose. But maybe, just maybe, he'll find it in him to learn to trust- both Jessica and himself.Takes place after my first Matt/Jessica fic A Skirmish of Wit, which was written for The Defenders Big Bang. It would probably help to read that first as it establishes the relationship between Matt & Jessica and the universe in which this story takes place, and because this piece is written as a counterpoint to Jessica's thought processes in the epilogue.





	A Mouth Full of Belonging

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the following poem by Rupi Kaur-
> 
> long distance love
> 
> talk to me  
> your voice  
> sounds like  
> coming home  
> from a war  
> that took  
> too many  
> parts of me
> 
> whisper  
> my name  
> i want to  
> fill a  
> mouth  
> full of  
> belonging

For the first time in a very long while, Matt Murdock feels okay. Even in the midst of the fallout from taking down the Hand and losing Elektra (again), he finds he is doing pretty well, all things considered. Remarkably well, actually. Maybe even great. He seems calmer, more settled, and happier than he has in months. He is doing so well that other people begin to notice and remark about it. Some of that he expects, as Luke and Claire and Danny all inevitably figure out that he and Jessica are making a go of it. And when they do notice and say something, he finds that it doesn't bother him like he feared it would months ago. Maybe it’s because they seem so genuinely happy for him, and for Jessica too. But when he thinks about it, he isn’t sure why he feared that they wouldn’t be in the first place, and he finds he’s not entirely sure he wants to investigate what that fear says about him. It’s probably nothing good. And it’s probably not a good sign that he has to struggle not to feel as though it’s a crime for him to be too happy for too long. Maybe that’s just the Catholic in him, though. And in the case that it is, he decides it’s time to pay Father Lantom a visit.

\---

He goes to church the next morning after mass has finished, in order to catch Father Lantom alone for a short conversation. As he steps into the nave, waiting for the last parishioners to filter out, he can’t help but feel lighter, especially considering the emotional place he was in the last time he was here. Before the Hand started to execute their plan. Before he met Jessica and everyone else. Before Elektra came back. So much has changed in such a short time. He almost loses himself in thoughts about this, but then notices that he and Father Lantom are finally alone.

“Hello, Father. Do you have a moment?”

“And so the prodigal son returns. Again. Hello Matthew. Sit.” Matt listens to the pew creak minutely as Father Lantom sits, and sits in the next pew back.

After a beat, and what Matt assumes is an appraising look, Father speaks. “I've not seen your face around in some time. But you seem in much better spirits than when we last spoke. Perhaps you’ve found your peace.”

Whether it’s instinctive or an ingrained habit, Matt finds he hangs his head at the chiding tone that he hears Father Lantom use. “Apologies, Father. I've been a bit busy with my _leisure_ activities lately.”

“Hhhhmm. Back in the swing of things, then? What changed your mind?” Matt listens hard for any sign of judgment or rebuke in Father’s tone, but for now, it’s mostly controlled and neutral which helps him to be less hesitant in his explanation.

“Mostly, the impending destruction of the city.”

Father Lantom huffs an exasperated chuckle in spite of himself. “Of course. I'm not sure what else I expected. But what about the other part? Might it have anything to do with those new friends you've appeared to make?”

Matt can’t help but smirk at little at that. “It's possible.”

With a heavy sigh, Father speaks again, this time with notes of reproach in his voice. “Well, if you’re going to start back up with this life, maybe you can at least put to rest the idea that you are the sole person capable of saving this city.”

“Yeah. Well, you would be happy to know that my new friends wouldn't let me get away with thinking that. Jessica especially.” The second part comes out as an afterthought, and Matt immediately regrets his slip. He says a silent (and _possibly_ slightly blasphemous) prayer that Father Lantom won't catch it.

“Ah. And who's this Jessica?” Matt had been waiting for Father Lantom’s pointed voice to make its appearance, and finds he has to wait to no longer.

But Matt really should have known better. Father Lantom may not have Matt's senses but he's still damn good at reading people. He never would have made it as priest if he wasn't. Matt’s mind spins out at light speed as he tries to think of a way to explain exactly who she is without giving himself away any more than he already has.

“Just another _gifted_ individual who has walked with me on my path in trying to help keep the city safe.”

“Mmmh. Another hero type?” Matt is sure that Father Lantom’s expression is nothing short of dubious with the highly skeptical tone he uses.

“I wouldn't say that. She really doesn’t want to be a hero. But I think she’s come to understand that there are certain things she can do that no one else can, and she’s grudgingly accepted the responsibility that comes with her abilities, for better or worse.”

A beat passes and Matt finds himself growing anxious in the silence between them until Father Lantom shifts against the pew, causing the wood to produce a creak that breaks it. Matt feels the weight of Father’s gaze as he finally speaks, and is not surprised to note that his pointed tone is back. “She sounds an awful lot like you in that regard, though perhaps a bit more reluctant. That’s most likely for the better; you've got enough heroic idealism for the both of you, I'm sure. But it sounds like she could be a nice contrast to you as well. Maybe she can help you stay balanced and maintain your peace in the midst of your activities.

With a shake of his head, Matt sighs. “She already has. More than she knows, I think. Though I didn’t realize she had at first. I thought that I was the one balancing her out, helping her to find her peace, but in the course of everything, it’s actually turned out to be the opposite. And when I think of all she's done to help me, sometimes I wonder what I've done to help her at all. Because … it really doesn't seem like much.”

As the words leave his lips, reverberating off of the wood pews in the space around him, he hears them reflected back to him and pauses as he processes them. And then realization settles like lead in his stomach. Because now that he thinks about it… when _was_ the last time he was of any help to Jessica? She's been more than a saint lately, helping him through the ebbs and flows of the grieving process in addition to his general struggles and self-doubt, and he can't remember the last time she reached out for him to help her with much of anything. An icy doubt trickles down his spine, its cold, spidery fingers creeping throughout his whole body as he plays this doubt to (what he mistakenly considers) its logical conclusion. And it's not a pretty sight. But his self-doubt spiral is interrupted as Father Lantom speaks, as shrewd and direct as he’s always been.

“Don't sell yourself short, Matthew. And remember that the best and most successful relationships are about give and take. It's not about one person being the savior for the other. It’s about both people helping each other through the process of being together and walking alongside one another."

If they weren't so spot on, Matt might find it in him to hate Father Lantom’s words, just a little. But he knows he can't. Instead, he gives a reluctant thank you as he excuses himself to ponder the question of how he has been able to help Jessica after all.

And ponder he does. The question lingers like the unwelcome and irritating scent of smoke in the fabric of his mind for the next week. Matt finds that he starts to mildly obsess about it, looking for signs that she needs him, or opportunities to help her with things. But in his analysis of her, he realizes that, despite her trauma history and the fact that he knows there are days when she is isn't doing especially well as a result, he has never personally encountered her in this state. There were a few times in the month or so that it took them to get to know one another when he knew she was barely triggered, and there have been a handful of similar situations he's been witness to since, but they all seem to be relatively small incidents which Jessica handled without much trouble. But that can't be all that she's dealt with, can it?

As he runs back through the time they've been together, he realizes that she’s made references to days he didn't see her when things were particularly bad and has disappeared for short periods of time when the situation was particularly overwhelming, but with a mix of utter disappointment and crushing shame he realizes he was never once physically present to notice her in such a state, and she never once asked for his help in those situations. He tried to be helpful when she'd asked for some space or when she'd told him about it later. He even tried to offer support without crowding her. Part of him had felt like they'd made progress enough in the time they’d been together that she would come right out and ask him for help if the situation was bad enough. But with a flash of white-hot fury he directs inward, he understands his mistake. This is Jessica Jones he’s talking about, and when has she _ever_ been able to ask for anything she needs? Fighting a losing battle against the shame, disgust, and disappointment roiling in his stomach, he finds himself embraces his old routine of self-flagellation.

He was an idiot to believe he'd been helping her by stepping away or allowing her the time and space to ask for help on her own- a proud and delusional idiot for thinking he'd helped her to grow and heal enough in their short time together that she would be equipped with the ability to ask for help. Just because he loves her. But with this thought, the blows just keep coming, and he has yet another devastating realization.

Matt absolutely loves Jessica. Totally and utterly. Without question. But he hasn't been able to exactly tell her that, out of respect for her own wishes. At least, that's what he told himself when he periodically felt the urge to say those words but repressed it in favor of doing or saying something else to try to convey his feelings. But he suddenly can’t shake the thought that it is possible that he was using her hesitation with those words as an excuse to cover his own fear of speaking them to her, not for the words themselves, but for the fear of what might come after speaking them. Or, rather, what might _not_ come after. And with that comes the fear that she wouldn't say it back, not because she couldn't, but _because it wasn't true_.

And with that, he might as well have been lacerated by Nobu’s blade again for the agony that overwhelms him instantly, down to his soul. But unlike last time, there is nothing to staunch the flow or numb the pain. He feels like the rug has been pulled out from under him as the last several months play on loop in the back of his head while angry and self-loathing voices point out his every mistake and misstep- each time he wasn't clear enough about how much he loves her, or didn't try hard enough to help her, or didn't fight her and do what he knew was best for her, regardless of her thoughts on the matter. The self-doubt spiral that Father Lantom interrupted the previous week returns at triple the speed from before and with no end in sight. It's all he can do to stalk to the kitchen and get out a new bottle of whiskey- Jessica's favorite brand, because _of course it is_ \- and make his way to his bed where he flops down unceremoniously as the memories of all of his mistakes wash over him until he drinks enough to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

\---

He's a little distant for a few days after that, though if she notices (and who is he kidding, she _does_ ), she says nothing. When she stops by his office one night inviting him out to dinner for the first time in a while, his excuses about work and a stressful case in addition to vigilante-ing are plausible enough, considering the stacks of files around him on his desk, so she doesn't push. Instead, she tells him to give her a call when his schedule clears up a little. He gives her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and says he will. He has a single second to wonder at what her expression must be, due to the sudden anxiety he notices coursing through her, before she shrugs and walks out of his office.

When he gets home, he kicks himself for being so dismissive of her and spends a solid hour debating whether or not to text and apologize for his moodiness. But in the end, his fear wins out and he drinks some whiskey instead. His speed on the self-doubt spiral is now quintupled as he goes from thinking it’s a not problem because she has seen him be moody before, to wondering why it even matters _if she doesn't love him anyway,_ in record time.

The temptation to use whiskey as a sleeping aid again that night is one he can't resist, so he doesn't even try, but he isn't spared from dreaming this time around. Instead, he dreams vividly of full, soft lips… of a wry, dry laugh… of the scent of whiskey, leather, and coconut surrounding him until he feels unburdened of all of his crushing doubts.

He wakes feeling more conflicted than ever, but somehow aware of the thinnest ray of hope that just won't seem to be overshadowed by his doubts, no matter what he comes up with. He considers it something between a small mercy and divine intervention, and finds himself contemplating whether he should call Jessica to take her up on the offer of dinner and stop trying to sabotage himself. But as it turns out, she calls him first.

\---

The call throws him off for a moment when it comes at 2:30 in the afternoon, but he recovers well enough. It takes a half second longer for him to place the emotions in someone's voice over the phone, because they get somewhat diluted through the layers of separation and the tinny quality of the speaker. But it takes practically no time for him to hear the desperation in Jessica’s clipped tone as she speaks in rapid fire fashion.

“Hey. Ar-re you busy right now?”

Truthfully, he kind of is, but if she’s upset enough to call and ask for his help of her own volition, he knows that nothing he had planned for the afternoon is important enough to stop him from doing whatever it is she’s about to ask.

He’s careful to create a relaxed and nonchalant tone as he answers her. “It's nothing I can't reschedule. What's up?”

She’s silent for a moment, but he can still hear her rhythmic breathing over the line, tightly controlled and timed- the kind he's heard her use to stave off panic in the past. After a couple of cycles of breathing, she speaks again.

“Look, I’m ha-” She blows out a frustrated sigh, then speaks quickly, as though she’s trying to get the words out as fast as humanly possible before she loses her ability to speak at all. “I'm just having a really shitty day, and I was wondering... if you'd like to come by. I mean, if you're free. Or whatever.”

Part of him wants to chuckle at how she dances around asking him directly, while the other wants to do double back flips from here to Harlem for the fact that she's calling and asking him for something, but none of that comes through in his voice as he agrees to her suggestion.

“Sure. I'll be right there. Just give me a few minutes to wrap things up here at the office. Do you need anything?”

She hesitates, the only sound that she’s making that of regulating her breathing, and he’s pretty sure he knows what she’s going to ask next.

“Well... I'm almost out of whiskey.” Her strained voice tells him that she’s not proud to be asking, but is desperate for anything that will calm or numb her at all.

He bites his tongue and agrees to her request, hoping that the urge to drink will lessen when she’s no longer pacing her apartment alone. “Clearly you’ve had quite a day. But that’s fine. I'll pick some up on my way. And I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

Even through phone, her relief is palpable, and he feels some of the indomitable doubt he had been carrying around in the pit of his stomach start to fracture. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

As he hangs up the phone, he spares a moment to consider how momentous this occasion is; Jessica is having a _very_ bad day and has chosen, without prompting, to ask for his help and allow him to see her in this vulnerable state. The joy he feels as a result is indescribable. He feels terrible admitting that, but as much as he wants to deny it or pretend that it isn't, this is exactly the type of situation he's been hoping for. The incessant self doubt and the disparaging voices that have been hounding him relentlessly for the past couple of weeks by telling him that she doesn’t care about him as much as he cares about her, and that it’s all his fault because he hasn’t been clear enough in telling her he loves her, are quieted several decibels by her call.

Relishing the receding tension in his shoulders as his doubt starts to fade, he takes a deep breath and tries to remember the other signs he's noticed, the other reasons he had thought that she might care for him in the last months. Like… the fact that she no longer seems to require the personal space bubble of him that she requires of everyone other than Trish, or the fact that her tone is different, softer and unguarded, when she speaks to him when they’re alone. These were cherished details for him until his conversation with Father Lantom, and in the wake of his episode of doubt, they had begun to feel hollow. But suddenly he finds himself considering them again. And the fact that she is being assertive and asking him to help her seems to bode well for him also. Because as terrible as it sounds like she feels, if she’s (finally) reaching out to him, it seems like the surest sign there could be that his fears are unfounded. He allows himself exactly one moment to relish the relief of this thought before locking it away and focusing on getting ready to leave; he’s still not going to take any of it for granted until he knows for sure, and his foremost concern in this moment is helping her to feel better, anyway.

He makes a few quick calls to rearrange his schedule for the next day (saying a prayer of thanks that he isn’t due in court this afternoon), and takes off in the direction of her apartment. He covers the ground as quickly as possible, meaning he doesn’t stick to a strictly pedestrian route. He still tries to keep a low profile, though, because he’d rather not be outed as Daredevil in broad daylight on a random Wednesday afternoon. Still, his non-traditional route helps him to make it to her apartment in record time, and it feels like he gets there not a moment too soon.

\---

Surprised as he is that this is only the first time he's encountered her in this state- full-on triggered and in panic mode- he's ready for it the moment he walks in the door. He takes none of it personally- none of her venom, none of her defensiveness, none of her distance. He doesn’t flinch when she barely acknowledges him, instead snatching the whiskey out of his hand and chugging several shots worth before turning around and sitting heavily on her couch, tears streaming down her face. He merely waits for her to calm, to resurface, to reach out for him. He’s fairly confident she will, eventually. But until then, he simply sits next to her, not quite touching her, but a solid, calming presence in her periphery.

When she still appears to be still be struggling to regulate her breathing twenty minutes later, he decides to ask if there might be another way he can help. His voice is barely louder than a whisper and very tentative as he does. “Jess, is there anything I can do?”

She sighs and he feels her shift forward, elbows on her knees and head in her hands. Her voice is strained and she chews on her lip, like she’s fighting not to let the words out. “... Can you just …  shit. It’s stupid. Nevermind.”

He shakes his head and fights the urge to put a hand on her shoulder to turn her toward him. Instead, he slips off of the couch and kneels in front of her, in the hopes that she’ll be able to believe his offer to help if she can see his face. “Hey, hey, it's not stupid. I'm happy to do whatever it is if you tell me.”

With a sigh, she taps her foot on the floor a few times before she settles further back on the couch. He hears her pulse speed as she works up the nerve to ask for whatever it is that she needs. “Can you just … talk to me?”

He’s got to be honest, he wasn’t expecting _that_ , and it throws him for a bit of a loop, leaving him to hesitate longer than he would have liked. Just as her heart starts to race even faster (and though he’s not a doctor, he’s pretty sure it’s dangerous for it to beat that fast), he makes his mouth form a response. “Uh… sure. If that’ll help. But is there anything specific you’d like me to talk about?”

She finishes a long drink of whiskey and brings the bottle down to rest between her legs as she gives him a huff. “I don't care if you read the fucking phone book. I can’t get that bastard’s voice out of my head and I … I need to hear a voice that isn't _his._ ”

Matt’s heart constricts as a flame of fury roars to life in his chest. Now and then he gets bits and pieces, glimpses into the hell that was her life under Kilgrave’s control, but she is stingy with details, even when talking to him. Anytime he hears another, his heart breaks a little more for her while being simultaneously filled with a murderous rage at a ghost he will never be able to confront or punish with his own special brand of justice. But he takes a calming breath to remind himself of his purpose here, and he locks his anger away for a different time. Then he gives her what he hopes is a reassuring, soft smile that conveys the truth that he would go to the ends of the earth for her if she would only ask.

“Yeah, I can talk. I’m a lawyer after all. And maybe that’s what I could talk to you about- legal statutes. It’s not quite as dull as the phone book, but it’s a close second, believe me.”

He hears a huff from her, and he smiles. He’s fairly sure that’s as close to a laugh as she is capable of giving him right now, but it lets him know he’s on the right track. She must notice his smile, because suddenly she’s grabbing his hand and pulling him up, the slightest hint of relief coming through the annoyance in her voice.

“You can sit on the couch like a human, Murdock. I’m not gonna bite.”

He swallows a chuckle as he moves to sit back on the couch. In other circumstances he would take the opportunity to joke with her about that particular statement (because that hasn’t _always_ been true), but he’ll have to save that particular joke for later. Instead, he settles into the couch and makes himself comfortable as he thinks of a story to tell her.

“Well, maybe I won’t recite legal statues… but I can tell you about my time in law school with Foggy. We had a propensity for getting into shenanigans, specifically with the guy who taught constitutional law, Professor Coggins…”

His focus shifts to her vitals again as he continues to tell his story, and he is pleased to note that the more he speaks, the more he feels the tension bleed from her frame. She appears to settle as she leans back into the couch, bringing her feet up and turning toward him to sit sideways against the back of the couch. He hears her breathing calm and level off as her heart rate returns to a normal range. He continues to talk for longer than might be strictly necessary just to be sure she is nice and calm.

But after telling several long, involved stories, he decides to check in with her again. He gives her a tentative smile, voice soft and low. “How are you doing?”

She exhales and rolls her neck, voice still quiet, but much steadier than earlier. “Better.”

His smile widens and he nods at her. “Good.” Just as he says it, he hears her stomach growling, and he turns back to her, raising his eyebrow. His tone isn’t quite accusatory, but it’s definitely pointed. “Jess, have you eaten today?”

She crosses her arms and answers him in a flat tone. “What do you think?”

He sighs, but it's as affectionate as it is exasperated. He's not that much better at remembering to eat when in the midst of emotional distress, though at the same time, the lack of food is no doubt making everything she’s feeling worse. “Well, what do you want, then?”

She sighs and he’s willing to bet his life on the fact that she rolls her eyes as well. “... I don't know. I'm not really hungry.”

A concerned frown causes his brows to furrow. “I know. I won’t make you finish a whole meal, but you need to eat something. So what sounds the least unappetizing?”

With an exasperated huff, she shrugs. “Uh... Chinese? I guess. Whatever.”

He flattens his mouth into a line to keep from laughing at her. He thinks she’s absolutely adorable when she uses that put-out tone, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s laughing at her. Especially not right now. Instead, he gives her another soft smile and tries to approximate her gaze.

“I'll take that.” He hears her pulse flutter and feels her still, looking hard at him. But he continues without acknowledging her response. “Any preference as to the restaurant?”

She sucks her teeth, then gives a long-suffering sigh. He catches a flush rising on her cheeks to match her chagrined tone. “Anything but Great Wall. They blacklisted me.”

To say he is curious is an understatement, but he knows he probably shouldn’t ask when she’s already been having a shitty day. Maybe there is a way he can ask without asking too explicitly or making her upset. In the end, he settles for raising an eyebrow at her and giving her an out with the way he words his question. “Do I wanna know?”

“Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault that the delivery guy accidentally got clocked by an angry, cheating husband that suddenly came to find me after I showed the wife my evidence earlier that day. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he should have ducked, anyway. Idiot.” Her higher, defensive tone makes him want to laugh. He has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from doing so.

He pulls out his phone and goes to hand it to her, insinuating that she pick a place and call. But as his hand touches hers, he pauses and smirks at her. “I adore you, Jessica Jones.”

The way her heart stutters at his words floods his chest with warmth and joy, but the way she feigns disinterest in this fact makes him smile a wide, goofy smile.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He gets up to get himself a glass of water from the kitchen, leaving her to call in peace. But in the middle of his task, he pauses at the sink as he is struck by the domesticity of the situation. He feels pretty comfortable in her apartment, though they’ve spent considerably more time in his. But it’s mostly because he catches the sound of her voice from the other room and realizes that she is ordering for him, perfectly, even though he completely forgot to tell her what he wanted. And something about it all- being here with her after she called him earlier today, of her own accord because she needed help, and her knowing him well enough to do something so silly and basic as _remember his order_ \- feels like coming home, for the first time in years. And all of a sudden, he finds he has to blink away tears as he realizes just how completely fucked he is. Because there’s no question in his mind that he loves her, and he really, _really_ hopes that he’s right about the fact that she loves him back.

\---

Several hours later, after they’ve eaten and laughed and shared some whiskey as Matt regaled her with other tales of his time in law school, he finally decides Jessica is calm enough that he can ask what, exactly, set her off earlier in the day.

From his place on the couch where he now lies with his arms folded beneath his head, he listens to the rhythm of her heart from where she lays on the floor, feet up and leaning against the far arm of the couch. He contemplates whether he should turn to face her, but decides that a little more distance between them (even if he can't technically make eye contact with her anyway) will probably help her to recount what happened. He speaks his question to the ceiling as much as to her, and he is sure to sound curious and just a bit concerned, without coming across like a fretting mother hen.

“Jess, what happened earlier today? Was it something specific?”

She’s silent for several beats, and he starts to worry she won’t answer him. He heard her heart jump a little as he asked, and he listens intently now to the sound of her breathing- the only sound the can bring himself to focus on in the apartment, in the building, hell, in the whole city. It's not as tightly controlled as it was when she called him however many hours ago, but it isn't quite the free, easy sound that it should be, and he can't help but think that doesn't bode well. Just as he’s about to give up on getting an explanation out of her, at least for tonight, she sighs. Then she speaks, voice quiet and low, but steady and unwavering.

“... Hogarth called me because she had some asshole she needed me to serve. On my way up to meet her, I literally ran into this guy in the lobby. He wasn't watching where he was going... and he just reminded me of _him_ ; he had the dark hair and the dark suit with a purple shirt, and everything. And it shook me up a little, so I was on edge the whole time I was there. When I got done with Jeri, I hurried to get out of there as fast as I could because I needed some air. But just as the elevator doors were about to close, some guy squeezed in... and, _of course_ , he was wearing cologne. And _of course_ , it was my least goddamn favorite cologne- Giorgio fucking Armani, who can go fuck himself as far as I’m concerned. As long as I live, I’ll never be able to forget that fucking scent because it was the same godforsaken cologne I spent months smelling while under the control of that... evil motherfucker. And all of a sudden it was like the dam that I had built to keep all of those awful memories locked away broke, and everything hit me all at once. I felt like I was drowning in never ending memories of the worst part of my life. I barely made it out of the elevator without having a panic attack, and I don’t even remember how I got home. I just know that as soon as I could speak again… I called you.”

He sucks in a breath, realizing that he had begun to hold it as she explained the awful turn her day had taken. A swell of pride mounts in his chest as he catches his breath because, all things considered, she handled that really damn well. Things could have been much worse, but she _is_ getting better. It's happening little by little, whether or not she can see it. He definitely can, and he'll do his damnedest to show her, because she deserves to feel like she's winning for once.

Giving in to his own desire to feel closer to her right now, he rolls to face her, giving her the option to engage him further or ignore him by continuing to stare at the ceiling.

“Wow. Jess, that sounds like it was absolutely awful. I'm sorry that happened. But you handled it really well. That seems like a good sign. A sign that you’re getting better.”

The slight rustle of her hair and the direction of her exhale tell him that she's turned toward him, ever so slightly. She blows out a long sigh and gives him a noncommittal tone. “I guess. But overall, today fucking sucked, and I’m exhausted.”

He gives her a soft smile as he pushes up to sit on the couch. “I bet. Well, why don't I leave so you can get some sleep?”

In the span of several seconds, her heart starts to race and he can practically taste the anxiety radiating off of her. She pushes up to a sitting position, which puts her right at his feet, which she pretends to take great interest in as she speaks. Her voice is quiet and seemingly apathetic, but he can hear a whole lot of intention and hope in the spaces between her words. And her body is telling him she cares in lots of other ways, if her suddenly erratic breathing is anything to go by.

“You don't … y-you could stay. I mean… if you want.”

He hesitates, giving what is most likely the crown of her head, an intent look.

Even if she doesn't raise her head to check, she must feel him looking at her because she mumbles under her breath only a second later. “Honestly, I'm not sure how much sleeping I’ll be able to do here by myself, anyway.”

In this moment, he's very glad she can't hear his heartbeat, because it definitely just jumped. He takes a grounding breath to ensure his voice will be nice and light, as though he's casually asking and not hanging on her every word, hoping beyond hope that she’ll confirm his suspicions. “Jess, do you _want_ me to stay? Because I’d love to, but you don't have to prove something to me by offering.”

A blush forms on her cheeks and her pulse quickens even more, but she finds her voice quickly and answers him. “... ugh, fine. Yes, _I want you to stay._ Just had to make me say it out loud, didn’t you?” The derision in her sigh is undercut by the panic that he senses beginning to tighten her chest.

He gives her a genuine smile to try to get it to abate. “Sorry. I just like to be sure. It’s the lawyer in me.” She finally looks up at him and sucks her teeth. He would bet she’s giving him one hell of a skeptical eyebrow raise. “Mhhhm.”

He stifles a chuckle and gives her a subdued shrug. “And it might be a _little_ bit about making you say it out loud.”

She leans back, hands resting behind her on the hardwood, causing the wood to give a minute creak under her weight. He’s pleased to note her breathing is evening out as she huffs an exasperated laugh. “You're lucky you're cute, Murdock. But I'm in no mood, so don't push your luck.”

This time Matt can’t help the low, soft laugh that comes out. “Noted.”

Jessica pushes herself up to stand and pauses in front of him. He feels her assess him, then she holds a hand out to him. “Come on.”

Without hesitation, he smiles and takes her hand, but his pulse ratchets up with each step they take toward her bedroom.

It’s not that he hasn’t been here before (‘here’ being about to get into bed with her), but it’s never felt quite like _this_. The tension and expectation that hang in the air between them are much different than those other times, because this isn’t about how much they want one another. They do, and they’ve more than covered that. But what’s passing between them right now is about nothing so desperate as burning desire. This is about her wanting him to simply be with her and him being willing to stay for as long as she will allow him the privilege.... until the end of time, if she would only ask. He hopes that she knows that, and most days he thinks she does. But this is also about the anxiety that comes from the things they don’t say out loud, the things he doubts and second guesses for how much he wants them to be true. He worries sometimes that the faith and hope he has can distort what _is_ based on what he _wants_ it to be. In order to fend that worry off, he tries to run through his mental checklist of the evidence he has against his doubts.

Matt Murdock is not a psychic by any stretch of the imagination, but all of his skills in reading people have culminated in his ability to be damn good at guessing what others might be thinking or feeling. Jessica Jones has always been a bit of an enigma to him, much more difficult to read than most other people he’s ever encountered, but by now, he is finely tuned to each and every one of her tells- the sounds, scents, and signs that her body gives off like a secret code that only he can read. He's not proud to admit it, but a selfish part of him revels in this ability and the fact that he is the sole person on earth who is able to notice and interpret these signs for the simple fact that she has somehow, miraculously, chosen to show him. It was slow going at first, and sometimes, it still is, but he never loses sight of what it is that she is battling against that makes it difficult to be so open about herself.

The sudden rustle of her of hair as she looks at him out of the corner of her eye stirs the scent of her coconut shampoo, and it clears his mind like a splash of cold water. With a shake of his head, he takes a measured breath, deciding to get out of his own way with his over-thinking and worrying about what hasn’t been said, and listen to the things she _is_ telling him.

She is telling him that she trusts him because she called him here to help her. She is telling him she needs him because she asked him to stay. And though he's thrilled and more than grateful for that, there's still one thing he wishes she could tell him. The slightest hesitation curls itself around his heart at the longing he has for that final reassurance.

As they cross the threshold of her bedroom, she drops his hand and walks to the left side of the bed where she immediately kicks off her shoes and socks and starts to peel off her jeans and her top most shirt, dropping them all in a heap on the floor. He pauses for a moment, breathing against some of his doubt as it comes creeping back in, before he loosens his tie and takes it off. Then he rolls his shoulders and forces an exhale as he removes his suit jacket, shoes, and pants, draping them gingerly over the chair to the right of the foot of the bed. He walks the few steps toward the bed where she sits, waiting for him, and sets his glasses on the bedside table. Before he can move to sit, she speaks, incredulity in her tone.

“What's with the dress shirt?”

Unbidden, a flush rises on his cheeks as the tension and doubt that have settled in his stomach seem to triple in weight. His tongue is leaden in his mouth as he tries to make a coherent sentence of the second guessing that told him to keep from being presumptuous. “Well, I … just didn't want to make things worse for you, especially now that you’ve calmed down. I was trying to be be cautious.”

She stills and looks up at him. “Well, thanks but no thanks. You’re of no use to me as a pillow if you’re partially clothed. So off with it.”

His half smirk hides the way that his anxiety continues to rise because he can’t tell if she knows what he’s really trying to say, the real reason he’s anxious and hesitant all of a sudden. But he starts slowly unbuttoning the shirt, anyway. She’s quiet as he removes the garment, and the relieved sigh she gives as he drapes it on top of his pile of clothes helps calm his pounding heart by a degree.

He pauses at the end of the bed and turns to her. “Are you sure this is okay?”

With an irritated huff, she drops her hands limply on the bed. “God, what is your problem all of a sudden?”

In a force of habit, he puts his hands on his hips, but he realizes, belatedly, that the gesture loses most of its gravitas when he’s practically naked. His voice wavers a bit until he straightens his posture and commits, regardless. “I just don’t want you to think I expect anything.” He bites the inside of his mouth to hide a grimace, because that’s not _exactly_ true. He kind of does expect something, even though he is trying with all of his might not to. But it isn’t what he worries she would think he might expect.

Her scoff gives him some measure of relief, but doesn’t eliminate his anxiety in its entirety. “Are you kidding?”

He flattens his mouth into a straight line as he attempts to once again talk around the true cause for his hesitance with her in the moment. “Jess, I’m just trying to be respectful.”

“Jesus, Matt. I'd say it was too late for that if you weren't just about the most respectful guy I've ever fucking met. But if I didn't want you here, I'd have kicked you out already. And I will tell you exactly how I feel about anything you do if I don't like it. You know I will. So lie the hell down if you’re staying.” She stills and he imagines that she’s facing off against him, likely staring him down and daring him to listen to her heart to see if she’s telling him the truth.

Over the last couple of months, she has begun to worry less about suppressing her body’s signs around him, and the strong, steady beat of her heart with the surprisingly honest tone she uses reminds him of this. The fact that she no longer appears upset or put out by the idea of him checking in on her on a physiological level is one of the bigger tells about what he’s been so worried about. He probably should have noticed it earlier, now that he thinks about it. Because it shows that she no longer avoids his attention and doesn't consider it an invasion of her privacy when he reads her. Maybe because she doesn’t consider any of her body’s functions all that private anymore, but instead something expects him to know. Or maybe even something she wants him to know. He really hopes it’s the latter. Regardless, she doesn’t seem to mind and this, more than anything, helps heart to calm some more.

With a nervous smile and a soft voice, he walks back to the bed. “Fair enough.”

He finally lies down, facing toward her, and as soon as his body touches the bed, she’s curling into him and clutching at him like a lifeline, arm tight around his stomach and legs tangling with his. The urge to wrap himself around her in response is overwhelming and instinctive. She nuzzles further into his neck as he draws her in closer, pulling her to him snugly to show her that he’s here, and he’ll always be here, as long as she needs him. She lets out a sigh and he is pleased to hear that it sounds relieved and content. And suddenly all of the doubt and tension and worry that had overtaken him in the last few weeks evaporates. And in its place, a sense of joy and calm suffuses his soul. Because this is where he belongs for the rest of eternity, he's sure of it. And he thinks he might be right to assume she feels the same.

He rubs slow circles along her spine in time with her breathing, which seems to have leveled out with his. His other hand cards through her hair as he places a kiss on the crown of her head. For just a moment, he allows himself to be completely overtaken by the sensation of her- the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the beat of her heart, rhythmic and sure. He’s never questioned whether heaven exists (though he often wonders if he’ll ever end up there) but for a moment he finds himself questioning whether, if he were to be allowed in, it could ever be as perfect as this moment feels. A voice in the back of his head tells him that it doesn’t matter, so long as Jessica is with him wherever he ends up, and he finds he is inclined to agree. He’d really rather not have to find out so long as he can help it, though, so he pulls her a little closer and burns every detail of this moment into his memory so he can cherish it forever. He much prefers this version of heaven to any version of the afterlife in which he is without her, and he’ll keep a damn good copy of it handy in his head since he can’t actually stay here in this moment with her forever.

Just as he thinks she may be drifting off to sleep in the silence that has settled over them, he hears her voice. It's hesitant and soft, and not just because it's muffled against the skin of his chest.

“Do you think I'll ever be done with this bullshit?”

She sounds so weary and pained, and it breaks his heart to think of how helpless she must feel  at the idea that she won’t ever be able to put this all completely behind her. He holds her tighter and nuzzles her head in lieu of being able to take that fear away.

It takes a moment for him to find his voice and to ensure that it comes out sounding calm steady, in spite of the emotions he feels in his chest that are trying to choke him up. “I’m sorry to say that I don't know. I’m hopeful that it will get slightly easier over time, maybe to the point that eventually, it isn’t much of a problem at all. But regardless, you _never_ have to do it alone. Please remember that.”

He is listening to her heart beat with an intensity somewhere between absently and intently when he hears the slightest stutter, and he knows she’s going to speak again. He is pleased to hear her sounding a little less anguished when she does.

“...I'm really glad you came.”

He smiles a beatific and spontaneous smile against her hair as her words confirm what he has already understood to be true. He knows; after everything today, how could he not? Now he just needs to make sure _she_ knows.

He hums and places another kiss on the crown of her head. The slight stutter in her pulse at the gesture gives him hope that she might at least wonder, even if she doesn’t know for sure.

“I’m really glad you called me. Though, next time, you could call right away. Then I could help you get home or wherever you need to go… if you want me to, that is.”

She feigns a noncommittal hum, but the smirk he hears tugging at the corners of her mouth belies the mirth hiding beneath. “I’ll consider it.”

He chuckles and goes back to slowly tracing patterns on her back. “I’ll take that.”

This time he feels as much as hears her whole body react to that phrase. Her heart starts to race again, as a blush forms on her cheeks, and she seems to vibrate with energy and tension in his arms. He has his suspicions about what is suddenly giving her such anxiety, but he wants to be sure ...

“...Matt?” Her anguished tone is back, tenfold, and it hurts him to hear it as much as it feels like confirmation that she knows what he’s been trying to tell her.

“What’s wrong?” He debates internally about whether or not to draw back enough that he can hear her voice more clearly, but something about the way she’s started clutching him tighter tells him that she doesn’t want the slightest amount of distance between them. That, or maybe she doesn’t want a direct sight line to his face in this moment. Regardless, he draws her closer, hand cradling the back of her head.

“I … ugh … I-I don't know how to...” She groans in frustration, though she tries to stifle it in the skin of his chest, before drawing in a large breath and trying again, voice edged with a mix of pleading and exasperation. “I mean... you know, right? You have to. Please tell me you kno-”

“Hey, Jess. It's okay. I do. I know.”

And in this moment, he can truly (and finally) say he does. He knows with every fiber of his being, and he’s never been more sure of anything, ever. Because at this point, he has a striking command of her entire body’s repertoire of tells, and he revels in the thrill he gets as he reads her signs like a map of her heart. And there is no doubt in his mind anymore that she loves him. He's never heard her say those words, and maybe he never will, but it doesn't matter. Not when he can hear her heart, feel her pulse, taste the unspoken words on her lips- sweet like honey and divine absolution. He will never see it in her eyes, but he can feel it in her presence, in the way that it feels so easy and familiar when she's in his arms, and in this moment, he decides he could live the rest of his life without ever hearing the words. A very small, possibly selfish, part of him would still like to - one day - but he doesn't need her to say it in order for him to know how much he means to her. And he doesn't think she needs him to say the words either.

So they don't. Instead, she melts into him, all of her tension draining away as she settles back against his chest like she belongs there and always has. And he smiles and continues rubbing soothing circles on her back while his world shrinks down to the size of her bed.

He isn’t sure how much time passes like this; he’s too focused on cherishing every part of this moment, every detail that he can sense. Eventually he feels her breathing slow into a long, even rhythm, indicating she's fallen asleep. He feels relief to know she was feeling well enough to let her guard down and actually get some rest with him here. As he times his breathing to match with hers, he feels the pull of sleep chasing close behind him too. And for the first time in a long time, he’s not afraid of what the morning will bring because he knows all that matters is that he’ll wake up to Jessica. To the steady rhythm of her heart, to her sweet, soft lips on his, to the feeling of her arm draped across his chest. And now he’ll know how to interpret each sign.

_I trust you._

_I love you._

_Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two more than words can describe, and I fall more in love with them the more I write them. Hopefully I've done them justice. I've got some other stories in the works related to these two, so stay tuned. If you want to, let me know your thoughts, and thanks so much for reading!


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